


no remedy for memory

by pleurer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bad guy pretends to be character's crush to get character to bang them, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Multiple Orgasms, Painful Sex, Peter Parker's sad little crying face, Pining, Smut, Whump, wanted it but not like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleurer/pseuds/pleurer
Summary: Whoever this is, it's not Mr. Stark.





	no remedy for memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LearnedFoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/gifts).

> You had me at “Peter Parker: Just try to break him (really please try),” and also "Whump my fave pretty please with some noncon on top," and also every other hurt Peter tag in your signup. :D
> 
> Peter’s age is ambiguous, though this fic is set sometime after the events of FFH. 
> 
> Title from Dark Paradise - Lana del Rey.
> 
> Redated for exchange author reveals.

Whoever this is, it’s not Mr. Stark. 

The sight of him knocks the breath out of Peter at first. There's absolutely no possibility that it's really Mr. Stark in front of him, approaching him in this dimly-lit back alley he'd popped by to check out while on patrol. Peter knows better— and yet every part of him sings with unrestrained hope. 

In the brief moment when he’s too shocked to respond, his attacker strikes. 

Mr. Stark rips Peter's mask off and wraps a steel-tight grip around his throat. When Peter reaches up to struggle, Mr. Stark grabs ahold of his web shooter, bends it at an angle and webs Peter’s wrists together. Once he’s immobilized, Mr. Stark then webs his wrists to the brick wall behind him.

“Mr. Stark?” says Peter. His heart jumps in his throat. Mr. Stark is _ safe _ and _ trustworthy— _ not _ danger, _ not _ fight-or-flight response. _Not that Peter can do much to fight. He and Mr. Stark had come up with this web formula together. Stronger than all his older ones. It was almost funny how it was being used against him now.

“Hey, kid,” says Mr. Stark. He smiles, all teeth. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s good to see you.”

Before Peter can force out a response past the tightness in his throat, Mr. Stark’s mouth is on his jaw in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. For a second, all Peter can feel is desire, pure want, a soft whimper falling from his lips. If he doesn’t let himself think about it, dwell on the strangeness of the scenario, it’s every single one of his dreams come true. Mr. Stark’s body is warm on Peter’s own, hands cradling his body almost gently. Peter wants to touch him back, but his hands strain against the restraints, and that’s when he snaps out of it.

“Who are you?” he croaks out. Mr. Stark’s goatee brushes against Peter’s skin. The texture is all wrong. “What— what do you want?”

“It’s me, Pete,” says Mr. Stark, in that same voice that Peter has ached to hear for what feels like an eternity. His mind races against the flood of emotions. “I just wanted to see you. You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?”

Peter struggles against the restraints. He brings a knee up, trying to hit whoever his attacker is in the gut, but he can’t bring himself to use his full strength, not when the spitting image of the man he’s in love with is staring him in the face. 

“I’m seeing a pattern here, Pete,” says Mr. Stark with a harsh chuckle. “You’re afraid to hurt me, right? Is that what it is?”

And whoever this is, it’s definitely not Mr. Stark, because Mr. Stark would _ never— _he would never— 

Reach down and press a rough hand to Peter’s crotch, kneading so hard it’s nearly painful— but he’s hard, he’s so hard because it’s Mr. Stark, or the image of him anyway, and it’s realer than anything Peter has dreamed of.

He cries out, due to pain or maybe pleasure— his muddled mind can’t tell the difference. He tries to close his legs, but they get shoved aside.

“Don’t fight,” says Mr. Stark in a low growl. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I know you want this.”

_ Not like this, _ Peter’s mind screams as Mr. Stark rubs the pads of his fingers roughly over his nipples, causing Peter to cry out. _ Not like this, _ he repeats again, biting down hard on his tongue as he writhes uselessly against his restraints, kicking feebly at Mr. Stark’s legs as he rocks against Peter’s cock, low groans of pleasure mixing in with unhurried laughter, taking what he wants. _ Not like this, _ he would yell if he had the capability to fight against Mr. Stark’s hand stroking Peter’s cock and forcing out a spurt of pre-come, because _ it’s Mr. Stark— _

He pulls a small knife out of his pocket, and for a second, Peter thinks maybe he’s going to cut him free. That whatever’s going on is about to end. He's not that lucky. Mr. Stark runs the knife down the front of his body, bone-chillingly gentle, so that it doesn’t press down on his skin at all. Instead, the knife cuts open the front of his suit, exposing Peter’s chest and cock to the cold air. Peter tries to hunch in on himself instinctively. Mr. Stark keeps running the flattened blade down Peter’s skin, eyes cold and calculating as he watches Peter’s chest flutter with every harsh breath he takes, pulse jumping rapidly against the cold metal.

“Mr. Stark,” says Peter hoarsely. “I don’t— I don’t understand.”

“How does it feel, Peter? To have your childhood hero defile you in public like this?” As if on a whim, he presses the blade down a little harder, cutting a small line across Peter’s chest and drawing a drop of blood.

Peter keeps his mouth shut. Inhales a shaky breath to calm his trembling body, and projects nonexistent confidence into his voice. “I know you’re not him.”

It’s not over yet, not so long as Peter remembers to keep a clear head. When Mr. Stark narrows his eyes, Peter lurches forward and manages to bite the handle of the knife into his mouth. If he can just tilt his head a little bit higher up, he can cut his hands free of the webbing. He’s flexible— he can do this— 

Mr. Stark snarls. “Oh, I don’t think so.” He curls a rough hand around Peter’s cock and tugs. Peter’s entire body goes weak and his jaw drops open. The knife clatters to the ground. 

“Damn, kid,” says Mr. Stark under his breath, except this time it’s really not Mr. Stark talking. “If I’d known it was so easy, I would have done this the first time.”

It clicks into place, then. Peter had heard on the news that Beck got out of prison, on parole, several days ago. He’d phoned in anonymously to tell the police about the illusion tech that he still might have access to, the underground crew he had working under him that had never been caught, but it hadn’t made a difference. In the end, despite that— or maybe _ because _of that— he was here now. 

“You know, Peter, this is what I always wanted,” says the image of Mr. Stark, with a horrible laugh. “Wanted you ever since I saw the video of you in that onesie. Do you think I flew you to Germany because I wanted to be your mentor? _ No. _I just wanted to wreck you. All that super strength, all that intellect, gone to waste. Look at you now, just a dirty slut lusting after his childhood hero.”

It’s not Mr. Stark. It’s not. Peter knows that, now more than ever, and yet the words cut worse than any physical pain ever could.

“It’s not going to work,” says Peter, trying desperately to keep his voice level. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.” 

Still, his body betrays him. The closer Mr. Stark draws, the more Peter’s body arches into his touch. He bites his lip so hard he draws blood and still can’t stop the broken moan that escapes his lips when Mr. Stark shoves a finger roughly inside of him. When he finds Peter’s prostate, Peter is hit with an orgasm right out of left field. As soon as he’s able to catch his breath and catch on to what happened, his blood runs cold. 

“I’d say it’s working,” says Mr. Stark with a smile. He curls his finger again and Peter whimpers, oversensitized body convulsing at the onslaught of sensation. 

“Don’t bother pretending like you didn’t want this all along,” says Mr. Stark, thrusting his finger harder. “Isn’t that why you were so eager to be an Avenger? You always wanted to grow up fast. You always wanted nothing more than for me to look at you just like I'm doing now.” 

This one hits home. Peter tries to swallow around the lump in his throat but finds that it’s gone dry. Mr. Stark’s smile is nasty, taunting.

“Oh, you sweet thing.” It’s wrong, all wrong, the way his voice comes out. “Wanted this for so long. All right, then. I'll give you what you want.”

It hurts like hell, going from one finger to Mr. Stark’s cock. Peter doesn’t think he can take it— he’s sure that something’s going to tear— but then Mr. Stark tugs at his earlobe with his teeth and says, “Relax,” and it works like a drug. 

_It’s easy to fool people when they’re already fooling themselves, _Beck had said. Maybe that was true. Maybe Peter was easy to fool because Beck was right. He had always wanted Mr. Stark anyways. When it came down to it, he would take what he could get.

Peter stops struggling. This is what he’s always wanted. He repeats that like a mantra in his mind, tries to focus on the pleasure through the pain clouding his senses— when Mr. Stark’s cock brushes against his prostate Peter comes with a surprised yelp, coating his abs and the remainder of his suit with white. It gets on Mr. Stark’s clothes, too. Mr. Stark looks down and wrinkles his nose in distaste. 

“What's that, twice already? Pathetic. I thought you’d last longer, super strength and all.”

He doesn’t pause, just keeps thrusting inside of Peter at his own arbitrary pace. It’s immediately too much. He writhes and gasps in pain against Mr. Stark’s strong hold. Mr. Stark hooks his legs up high around his waist and tugs hard at his hair, presumably to get him to shut up, but because the phrase _ hair-trigger _is quite literal for Peter, he comes once more against his will, a small hot spurt landing onto Mr. Stark’s chest.

“God, you’re fucking insatiable,” says Mr. Stark. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. Maybe in another world, it would have been. Peter always thought that, despite his inexperience, he could at least offer this one thing— this ability to provide Mr. Stark, the man who’d pretty much seen it all in the bedroom, with something new and interesting. As it is, Mr. Stark only looks at him with disappointment. “If you wear yourself out before I’m done, that’s your own damn fault.”

It hurts unbearably now, when Mr. Stark pistons his hips hard into Peter. The ache tears through his body and before he can think better of it, he does the one thing he promised he wouldn’t.

“Stop,” he chokes out. _ “Stop.” _But of course, nothing happens. It only gets worse. Mr. Stark hooks a rough hand in his hair and fucks him faster, harder. Peter was wrong. It wasn’t over when he stopped trying to escape. It wasn't over when he admitted to wanting it, or when he admitted he didn’t want it after all. It was over as soon as it began. 

He’s faced a lot of enemies over the years, but he hasn’t felt this helpless in a long time. When he’d got bitten by the spider at fourteen, he’d thought, _ I can be a superhero, like Iron Man. _When a building dropped on him at fifteen, he’d thought of Mr. Stark’s words to keep him going, and summoned his inner strength. Even in outer space, facing an army of deadly aliens on a foreign planet, he’d been equal parts nervous and excited, because he had Mr. Stark by his side, the one person that he trusted to always do right by him.

He hasn’t felt this helpless since he watched the life fade out of Mr. Stark’s eyes. 

Now, in front of him, Mr. Stark’s eyes are just as empty, even though he's moving with vigor against Peter’s body, the jolts of pain evidence enough of his existence. It hurts too much to think clearly, to decide whether having Mr. Stark like this is better or worse than not having Mr. Stark at all.

“You want me to stop? Beg for it,” Mr. Stark growls under his breath.

Peter clenches his jaw and holds his head high. He may have nothing left but his pride, but he won’t give that up. He won’t. Whenever he talked back to the real Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark had laughed appreciatively. Called him a troublemaker, or one of his many fond nicknames. But he had never tried to change any fundamental part of Peter. Had never tried to hurt him. To break him. Once, a long time ago, Peter was loved and cared for, just never in the way he truly wanted. Now, he was wanted, stripped of his agency to be used like a toy and thrown away. There was no in between. Peter wanted an in between. But there was none.

“Did you hear what I said?” Mr. Stark demands. “Beg me to stop. Say _ please.” _He smacks Peter across the face.

Peter's head snaps painfully to the side. His vision blurs, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“I was right,” says Mr. Stark, voice dripping with disappointment. “You’re nothing without the suit, and you’re nothing with it, either.”

A tear spills out the corner of Peter’s eye. He tries desperately to will it away, but it doesn’t listen. His body shakes with shame as it slides down his cheek. After that, he gives up on speaking or thinking altogether, letting everything blur together in an endless haze until finally, Mr. Stark comes. He spills inside of Peter, hot and wet and dirty, and lets it drip out, staining Peter’s thighs and what’s left of his suit. 

He gives Peter one last look of disdain and then tidies himself up. He leaves Peter there, webbed up to a wall in a back alley, in his ripped-up suit with his mask still off. Peter knows that it’s late enough that the chance of someone discovering him here is low, at least until the webbing degrades. Still, the shame burns hot in the pit of his stomach, threatening to swallow him whole. His whole body feels raw, and every breath he takes, every burst of cold air that seeps into his aching lungs, suffocates him from the inside out. All he can do is duck his head down low and finally let himself cry, body shaking uncontrollably with sobs, silent and unheard.


End file.
